


Aporrectodea

by Rinedin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Corruption!Martin Blackwood, Gen, The Magnus Archives Season 1, semi-graphic depictions of parasitic infestation by sentient supernatural worms, worm-related memory loss and mind control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinedin/pseuds/Rinedin
Summary: Martin Blackwood should be dead. But he isn’t, and what he is might be worse. Now, with the Institute in danger, Jonathan Sims receives some help from a friend that should be an enemy.(Canon divergence from MAG22. The door was locked)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	Aporrectodea

**Author's Note:**

> Brief note: this fic contains some very vague, one-sided Jon/Martin, which is implied by two or so lines to be romantic on Martin's end. It's minor and other than that could be read as platonic, but as the fic is marked Gen I thought there should be fair warning.
> 
> My apologies to any Brits that are reading this. I am but a poor Canadian who does not know how to properly use google maps, and I have never actually been to Peckham Rye Park and Commons.
> 
> Also my apologies if you got here by googling the earthworm genus. There are no earthworms in this fic, though their appearance was inspired by the noble _Aporrectodea rosea_. Earthworms are lovely, and these worms are not.

Text from Martin Blackwood, March 7th 10:32 AM: “ _Can’t come in today. Still not feeling well. I think it might be a parasite._ ”

It had been a week since Jonathan Sims had received that text. He had received none afterwards, and while he might usually enjoy the time free from his rather useless assistant he was actually feeling surprisingly nervous.

He had phoned and sent emails, but had yet to receive a response. His kneejerk reaction would be to assume Martin was trying to skip work, but those words kept echoing through his mind.

_I think it might be a parasite. Parasite. Parasite…_

Should he just… go out there? Knock on Martin’s door and drag him back to the Institute by the ear? Should he petition Elias to suspend his pay in the hopes he’d get the message? Should he regress to paper letters in case Martin had spontaneously forgotten how to use all technology?

Jon looked down at the pieces of paper stapled together on his desk, and at the blank tape recorder awaiting just the press of a button. No. He was Head Archivist and he had work to do, and if Martin didn’t feel like doing his that was hardly Jon’s fault.

Except he wasn’t working, was he? He was just sitting there silently, having yet to turn the recorder on.

He shook his head a little more violently than he needed to. It was nothing, he told himself. Just get on with the statement.

He was reaching for the on switch when the door to the room burst open. Jon startled, nearly scattering the papers from his desk as Tim Stoker skidded into the room. He was breathing hard as if from a long run.

“Jesus, Tim!” Jon snapped, adjusting his glasses and smoothing his coat in an attempt to hide his surprise. “You’ll damage the door, doing that!”

“Sorry,” Tim said breathlessly. He took a moment to recover then trotted over. “So uh, question: when was the last time you heard from Martin?”

A light prickle crept up the back of Jon’s neck. “That would be the last text he sent me, stating he was still feeling unwell. I suspect he’s skipping out on his work.”

“If he is, he’s going about it weirdly. I was just out checking on that thing with the fish heads, and I ran into him. Not into-into him, but I saw him in the parking lot a few streets down. I was going to say hello, ask him if he was coming to work, something like that, when he saw me and just… dashed away. Full on sprinted away from me.”

Jon hid his growing discomfort behind a sniff. “Sounds like he didn’t want you to catch him. You’re _sure_ it was actually Martin?”

“Ninety percent sure… but I don’t think that’s it. He didn’t… look well.”

“Then why didn’t you follow him?”

Tim made a face. “What? I mean, if it was actually Martin why would I do that? That seems kind of creepy.”

“You’re the one so concerned about him. If he looks so unwell you’d do better to get some answers from him, instead of sprinting all the way back to me. All _I_ have are a few vague texts.”

One side of Tim’s mouth compressed with something that may have been either worry or frustration. “Can I see them?”

“If it will get you back to work.” Jon fished his phone from the inside of his jacket and brought up Martin’s last string of texts, then showed them to Tim.

A look of sudden anger twisted Tim’s usually handsome features. “These… You didn’t think something like this was _worrying?_ ”

“Well I– I did. I sent him god knows how many emails, texts, calls. I was in half a mind to send him a letter, in fact, in case he’d gained a sudden illiteracy with technology,” Jon said defensively. “He’s yet to answer with anything but that.”

“You didn’t follow up? You didn’t go there? What if he’s in trouble!” Tim said incredulously.

“You saw him. He’s clearly fine.”

The look Tim gave him called him out on his blatant stubbornness. “He sprinted away from me like a maniac, and if you’ll listen to me for a minute you’ll know he _isn’t_ fine, and I _saw_ it. I didn’t actually get that close, mind you, but I’m pretty sure he was wearing, like, _coats_. He was moving all slouched like he was tired or something, and his hair was... longer?” He shook his head. “If you don’t care to go I’ll pay him a visit and—”

Jon’s phone, which was halfway to his pocket, buzzed.

A feeling of inexplicable dread settled in his stomach like a ship to the bottom of the ocean. With some hesitation he pulled it back out and turned it on again.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 2:44 PM: “ _You don’t need to worry about him, Jon. Tim can stay._ ”

“Jon? What is it? I have _never_ seen you that pale, show me.”

Jon showed him. Tim’s face couldn’t twist any farther, so it didn’t.

“You, uh, you may have a point,” Jon admitted. The prickle was back, that creeping sense of unease, and he got the sudden urge to look around. He scanned the shelves and the ceiling and the walls, but saw nothing particularly strange. There was another of those worms, which wasn’t out of the ordinary—the things had been all over the place as of late—but… this one was a different colour. Instead of silver it was brown, russet with a hint of red at its tips, and writhed slowly along the baseboard. “I’ll… I’ll go check up on him.”

“You sure you don’t want me along?” Tim asked.

It was barely a second later that Jon’s phone buzzed again.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 2:46 PM: “ _If you want to meet him, Peckham Rye is nice after dark._ ”

He shared that one with Tim as well.

“Absolutely not, no way,” Tim said immediately. “I change my mind. You know this is super spooky, right? He’s silent for a week, then suddenly starts sending you texts like he knows what we’re saying.”

“You’re not wrong.” Jon’s attention kept returning to that russet worm. It had made good headway along the wood. Dread still twisted in his stomach, and he wanted to stamp on it until it was mush.

Tim noticed his gaze. He made a noise of disgust, quickly stepped over, and brought his shoe down on it. It popped against the floorboards.

“It was a different colour…” Jon said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Tim didn’t seem to hear him. When he returned Jon continued, “You don’t think it’s a good idea, but I have to go.”

“If you do, I’m coming too.”

“Fine. If I really can’t stop you.” Though secretly Jon would be glad to have him along. Because it was either that Martin was speaking in third person, or that he wanted Jon to meet someone else in that park, and either way it wasn’t something he wanted to face alone in the dark.

Tim nodded in satisfaction. “That’s it, then. Catch you later.”

He left. Jon watched the door close behind him, then looked down at the bright rectangle in his hand. He kept expecting it to buzz again, but it remained still, displaying the last text from Martin…

Was it from Martin? Jon really hoped it wasn’t. It would be nice to find out that his phone had just been stolen or something, and that the thief thought it would be fun to mess with the poor sods on his contact list. It would be nice to go to that park and find it empty. A prank.

Except that Martin must have the other archival staff on his contacts, and if they’d received anything they’d said nothing to him. All signs pointed to this being something more than simple workplace belligerence, and he wasn’t pleased at all by that fact.

Jon stuffed the phone back into his jacket. It was hours until sunset, and he had a statement to record.

* * *

The sky was cloudless, the moon half full and shedding what little light it could over the dark expanse of the park. In the distance a lamp illuminated a set of stone benches, but the grassy area Jon and Tim were standing on was pitch black.

It was a chilly March night, and they’d both bundled up in coats and gloves. Jon, feeling antsy, had taken both a torch and a small pocketknife with him in addition to his phone and wallet. As far as he could tell, Tim had done the same.

“This would be a great time for one of those texts,” Tim said, gazing around them at the barren area.

They both waited, but no messages were forthcoming.

Jon felt silly for thinking there would be any. “We’re at the border. Might as well get comfortable.”

He tugged his collar up higher, wishing it would reach his numb ears, and started toward the benches. He entered the pool of light, but instead of making him feel better it made him feel worse. It made him feel _exposed_ , the brightness bearing down on him like a spotlight.

He’d intended to take a seat and wait for Martin, but he found, as he looked down at those cold stone slabs, that the thought of sitting was even more harrowing. Instead he gazed around yet again, but as far as he could tell the field was still empty.

“Jon!”

A hand closed around his arm and dragged him back. Tim then proceeded to stomp hard on the little russet worm wiggling its way across the packed dirt at the base of the bench. It didn’t pop as nicely as the last, the intact end twitching several times before it finally stilled.

He wrinkled his nose at it. “I hate those things. So creepy.”

“It was the same colour,” Jon said.

“What?”

“As the worm in the archives you flattened. It was the same colour. Brown, not white.”

“Huh… You’re right.” Tim inspected the mess on the bottom of his shoe, then wiped it off on the grass.

Jon steeled himself, took a breath, and called: “Martin?”

Silence.

He was taking a breath to call again when Tim hissed and pointed off toward a distant tree. “Ssh, I think I see someone.”

The tree in question was about thirty metres away. Jon squinted hard, knowing the beam of his torch would be useless at such a range. Tim was right, there _was_ someone there, illuminated just barely by the moonlight. They looked fairly tall and were wearing some kind of long coat, half ducked behind the tree. Any further details were shrouded by the night, but Jon knew they were staring at him. He _felt_ it.

He took a step toward them, and they took off running.

Jon stood there and watched, paralysed with indecision. His instinct was to give chase, run them down and figure out who they were and why they had been staring—and if it was Martin, that would solve his current problem. But on the other hand he’d read enough statements by now to understand that chasing after someone in the dark under suspicious circumstances was a bad idea.

“You think that was him?” Tim asked. He seemed to come to the latter decision and had made no move to follow.

Jon watched the figure disappear behind a hedge into the more decorative section of the park. There was no further movement in the moonlight. “Maybe. We could—”

His phone buzzed twice.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 8:15 PM: “ _We don’t want to see him we don’t want to see him we don’t want to see him._ ”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 8:15 PM: “ _Just you Jon_.”

“Not maybe,” Jon corrected himself, and showed Tim the texts.

“He means me, doesn’t he,” Tim said. “You noticed that he said ‘we’ right?”

“I did… I don’t like it. He obviously won’t talk while you’re here.”

“Is it my cologne?”

“You _could_ cut back a little.” Jon came to a decision and turned on his torch, aiming it down at the grass. “I need to find him, and you clearly can’t accompany me. If you hear me screaming, run fast.”

“Are you telling me to wait in the car?” Tim asked incredulously. “Jon this is stupid.”

“My archival assistant has been missing for weeks. He won’t answer my messages, and he wants me to meet him alone in this park. There are… worms in the archives. I have a feeling it may be related to Jane Prentiss, so if you have a better suggestion now is the time.”

“This is stupid,” Tim just repeated. He sat down on one of the benches and crossed his arms, made a little _go on_ gesture with one hand.

Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath in an attempt to gather some courage, then opened them and started away into the darkness. All too soon he had crossed into the park section proper, and he held his torch tighter, sweeping the beam across the greenery as he went.

“Martin?” He called. Not loudly like before; instead he found himself adopting a tone like he was trying to lure out a skittish cat. “It’s just me now. You wanted to talk alone?”

He received no response, and so continued on until Tim and the pool of light were far gone. He turned a few corners until he could no longer see it shining through the hedges and fences, until it was just him, his torch, and the night.

All was silent save for the packed earth of the path crunching softly underfoot. The decorative bushes cast long, wavering shadows, and the hedges stood silent like dark walls. He shivered; the way the leaves parted into dark gaps had him imagining all the things that could be watching from inside. It didn’t help that his torch seemed a bit dimmer than usual, though that was most certainly just his imagination.

“I don’t have time for this, Martin,” he warned gruffly, trying to disguise the way his voice was starting to waver.

He heard something then. It was very faint, and sounded like the muffled scuff of shoes on grass.

Jon swung the beam of his torch around. There was a fence not five metres away. This one was chain link, unlike the decorative wooden things he had seen so far, and stood about two metres tall. It served to close off an outbuilding from the rest of the park.

The light fell on a figure standing on the other side of it.

Jon’s entire body froze at what he saw. His blood felt like ice in his veins, and only his death grip on his torch kept him from dropping it.

It was Martin—and god, _god_ he wished it wasn’t.

He was wearing a long brown coat that fell just past his knees, unbuttoned atop a plain, navy blue shirt. His hair looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in the weeks he’d been absent, his dark curls tangled and dirty, and his skin was pallid and unhealthy—at least the parts of it that were visible, because wherever there was any skin exposed it was covered in deep holes writhing with russet worms. They burrowed placidly through the flesh of his hands and neck and face, and caused his shirt to shift unpleasantly.

Deep down Jon had known he would see something like this. He had known from the first time he’d seen that aberrant worm in the archives, yet the only thing he could say was still, “Fuck.”

“Sorry, Jon,” Martin said. His voice sounded like him, but with an unpleasant wet quality to it like something was seriously wrong with his lungs. He gripped the fence with both hands, curling his fingers around the thin metal rods. Figures this would be the only time he ever took off those fingerless gloves he was so enamoured with. “We didn’t… We wanted to talk with you alone. You’re in terrible danger.”

Jon could only shake his head mutely. He didn’t even _like_ Martin, but this… dear god, _this_ …

“A– are you– you threatening to… kill me?” he managed to stutter out.

Martin blinked in surprise. His eyes were strangely alert and whole given the state of the rest of him. “Of course not! We don’t want you to die. It’s the Flesh Hive that wants you dead. It wants you to die and the Institute to burn, and we know its plans because it tried to… make… us… it.”

“What… what happened to you?” This was viscerally horrible to be doing in the dark and Jon was very glad there was a fence between them, but he still couldn’t shake that curious pull. He knew it would be terrible, but he wanted to _know_.

“Oh, like a statement?”

“Not– not a full statement. Just the important parts.”

Martin—or the thing that was once Martin—adjusted his grip on the fence. A few worms fell to the grass. “Hm, well…”

* * *

He was expecting the drop this time, and lowered himself from the window to the cold concrete floor of the basement.

_Look at me, breaking and entering_ , Martin thought. He felt a nervous little chuckle rise in his throat and cut it off before it could reveal him. _Twice in one day, too_.

Only the faintest bit of moonlight made it through the window. Martin turned on his torch and swept the beam around, noticing with a creeping discomfort that the room didn’t quite look as he remembered it. It was still spooky, but the cobwebs he had seen before were old and unused and the air was strangely warm compared to the chilly night he’d come from.

That was… disappointing. No spiders, just an eerie feeling and criminal charges if he wasn’t careful. Might as well leave.

He was just turning around when he heard a rustling. Movement, it sounded like, like fabric shifting from the far side of the basement.

Martin would like to think he knew better than to investigate. He’d worked at the Institute for long enough, read enough horror fiction and watched enough movies to know that it was usually a really, _really_ bad idea to follow the sound…

Yet, it was why he was here, right? It was his job. And hey, maybe the reason there were no little spiders was because the big spider was here. Just a big fluffy spider… with a vendetta. He could sneak a peek at it and report back.

He moved toward the sound, trying to step lightly and holding his torch in front of him protectively. He could feel sweat gathering against the plastic beneath his palm as he panned it across the old shelves and other detritus cluttering the area. He found he could only see their outlines, like the beam of his torch was weak and dying. That couldn’t be right, though— he’d just put in new batteries this morning.

He should just leave, actually. The darkness felt like it was clustering around him, and he should just leave and convince himself he’d imagined the sound.

That was when the weak beam of his torch found the figure. It seemed female, with long, matted hair that may have been either naturally black or so dirty that its original colour was impossible to tell. She was standing facing the wall, dressed in a long, threadbare grey overcoat. Her legs were bare beneath it and covered in some kind of spots, and there was something extremely unsettling about the way she was standing so totally still, a green handkerchief clutched in her hand.

Martin didn’t move a muscle.

Suddenly she raised the handkerchief to her mouth and made the worst noise Martin had ever heard in his life. It was like meat, shredding, _tearing_. Somehow he could only think of it like a cough.

A little silver worm fell, wriggling, to the ground.

Martin screamed. He couldn’t help it, and the moment the sound left his mouth he realised how dire a mistake he’d made.

The woman whipped around, her stringy hair falling haphazardly around her shoulders. She locked eyes with him, and there was something oddly sunken about her pupils. She smiled, then, exposing chipped and blackened teeth. Martin expected her to lunge at him, but instead she simply removed her coat.

And he realised that whatever she was, there was no way she was human.

Her— _its_ —skin was pale enough to be almost terminally grey, and full of _holes_. Deep, black holes infested with writhing silver worms covered almost every part of its body. As he watched they dropped in droves from their nest of flesh and began crawling quickly along the ground toward him.

Martin stumbled backwards, thinking of the staircase leading up into the complex above. His heel hit the first stair, but as it did he found himself reaching for his phone instead of immediately dashing up. Jon would want to see this, he thought. He would want proof, and maybe if he got some he would stop being so… so…

Wait, what was he thinking? There were _worms!_

He turned and dashed up the stairs to the door, except when he tried to turn the handle he found it locked.

That wasn’t how it went. The doors were never– were never _locked_. He tried it again, hand shaking, but it would not open. He let out a little moan of terror. He didn’t want to turn around, but he did anyway, trembling, and found the creature standing at the base of the staircase. It was just watching him, not following, its tide of silver worms squirming around its bare feet.

There was no way he could get past it to the window. Why did he go up the staircase? God, _why?_

He was shaking so hard but he still raised his phone, managing not to drop it with his fumbling hand, and took a picture. The creature at the bottom of the stairs recoiled slightly from the bright flash—the only movement it had made since appearing there.

At least now maybe they’d know what happened to him, Martin thought distantly.

“Martin Blackwood,” the creature said. Its voice was grating, _wet_. Apparently the worms were making less of an impact on its throat than he thought. “Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute.”

“Y– y– yeah. That’s– that’s me,” Martin squeaked. He flattened himself against the unyielding door as the creature began to step, slowly, up the stairs toward him. “Sorry for interrupting you. I can, ah, I can just– just leave, if you want. No harm done, right?”

It said nothing.

Something occurred to him as it made its way up. Martin still had his torch clutched in his hand, and in its weak light he could make out the expression the creature had on its face, like a strange mixture of hatred and interest. There was something about it… her… that was triggering a memory. Something Jon had him chasing a while ago…

It clicked as she stopped two stairs away. “…Prentiss? Jane Prentiss?”

She didn’t respond. Instead she leaned forward, peering up at him with those sunken eyes, so close that he could see every hole that marred her face. The worms hadn’t followed her, still swarming at the base of the stairs, and it was enough to make Martin hope that maybe, somehow, he’d be alright.

At least until she grabbed him.

He cried out again, feeling untrimmed fingernails digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his jacket. A strong musty scent hit him, like old leaves and turned earth.

Something else dug into his arms then, and it wasn’t fingernails. The last thing he heard before the blackness took him was Prentiss’s grating tone saying, “You… You will do well.”

* * *

Martin woke up in darkness. A sudden panic gripped him, and he fumbled around for a moment, feeling cold concrete below him, until his hand hit something that felt like a torch. He grabbed it and turned it on, finding himself in a gloomy basement.

The air was cold, the scent of a crisp night wafting in through an open window nearby, but its freshness did nothing to quell the pounding in his head. He sat up, and had to fight back the urge to vomit as an intense wave of nausea hit him all at once.

He groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead. This place… was familiar. Why was he here again?

He swept the beam of his torch around, but could see nothing but old boxes and dilapidated shelves covered in ancient cobwebs. He was sitting near the base of a staircase. Did he… fall down it and hit his head? It didn’t seem like it—he was lying too far away and too neatly for that to be the case.

His phone was sitting on the ground beside him. He picked it up, and was relieved when it turned on. The bright light sent stabs of pain through his eyes. It told him it was 2 in the morning, which meant he should probably go home. Yes, that sounded nice. Just go home.

This basement was spooky.

He stood up and waited for the dizziness to fade before making his way to the window and arduously climbing out into the night. He made his way back to his flat, locking the door behind him. He felt so very tired, and barely paused to drop his phone and torch before flopping into bed fully clothed.

He dreamed that night. About what he couldn’t say, but it was long and dark and endless.

The next thing he knew it was morning. Midday, actually, if the sunlight streaming in through the blinds was any indication.

He’d hoped a good rest would make him feel better, but as he rolled over he realised he actually felt worse. The headache was gone, which was a relief, but in its place was an… ache, like he had just ran for miles. He still felt nauseous.

Getting up, Martin found his phone where he’d dropped it absently on the table. He hated being a bother, but he felt it might not be wise to go in to work today. If he was coming down with something after whatever he’d done last night—why couldn’t he remember?—the last thing he wanted to do was infect his co-workers.

He texted Jon a message: “ _Not feeling well. Might be best if I don’t come in today, sorry._ ”

He put the device back down, scratching absently at his arm. Should he have breakfast? He wasn’t really feeling like it.

* * *

Martin suspected that maybe he should go see a doctor.

It had been a week. Jon must be so mad at him by now—everyone must be so mad—but he wasn’t feeling any better and he was sure weathering that ire would be preferable to subjecting them to whatever this was.

Yet every time he thought to pick up the phone and dial the hospital he just… didn’t. He put it back down and walked away. He didn’t check his emails, didn’t even open his laptop. He got the feeling that Jon might have answered him, but he couldn’t remember what he said.

It was like something was telling him he didn’t need to. It was like something was saying it would take care of him.

Martin felt itchy.

It was strange, though. He felt nauseous, but not like he was sick with the flu or anything. It was… it was… wriggly. Something about it reminded him of those little worms you got from eating undercooked meat sometimes. Not really dangerous unless you were malnourished, but not usually in your stomach either.

He should… call… a doctor.

Instead he picked up his phone and texted Jon again. What he said he couldn’t actually recall.

* * *

Martin woke up in the middle of the night in agony.

It felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was in his chest, in his arms and legs and back and head and it _hurt_. He found himself on the floor, still half tangled in the covers, curling in on himself as if the position would somehow protect him from the pain that was _inside_.

_Martin._

It was a voice. Maybe a voice. It was… it was in his mind. So not a voice? His world was too blurry with pain to tell. It felt like he was dying, and he was afraid. He was so, so afraid.

_We can hear your song. We would make you a vessel, Martin, but you’re too precious for just that._

He was gripping the blanket hard enough to rip the fabric, but he had little care for that right now. He tried to speak, or at least moan, but couldn’t. Instead he coughed—and felt something in his mouth.

_No one loves you, do they? They should love you. She should love you, and so should he._

Martin felt so itchy. Were he not frozen in agony he would be scratching furiously at his skin, trying to get at what he could feel squirming underneath, beneath his skin, beside his _bones_.

_But we love you. We love you, Martin. You are perfect for us. We love you. Let us love you._

The pain subsided enough that he could force himself to his hands and knees. To do what, though, he wasn’t certain. He could feel tears sliding down his cheeks. They hit the floor at the same time as something dropped from his lips. It was a worm. Not silver, but brown. A nice, red-tipped russet colour.

He remembered the basement, then. Or was it him that was remembering?

He saw himself flattened in terror against the door. Prentiss had… done… something.

_Jane Prentiss is us and we are her. We love her, but we love you, too. You cannot be consumed in the way she wants you to be. We want to be you. We want to love you._

The pain subsided again, letting Martin sit back on his feet. He saw the worms that fell from his mouth and into his lap, but he wasn’t afraid anymore—or if he was, it was no longer purely fear he was feeling. He simply stared at them, then raised a hand and stared at it instead, watching as things burrowed up from inside his palm and sat there placidly.

He felt… he felt… loved. It was almost vicious in its intensity. When was the last time he had felt anything like this? When he was small, before his father left and his mother grew distant? Certainly not when his friends joked around but didn’t truly see him, certainly not when Jon was frowning at him with disdain even though his gaze made Martin’s heart flip.

The voice in his head was not in his head anymore but all over him. It said join us. It said join us or be consumed.

He was still crying, but they weren’t tears of sadness.

The pain lessened until it was a hum, then again until it was nothing. He could feel them, all the little worms burrowing through his flesh, carving holes in his skin, but somehow it no longer hurt. He could see through the dark with eyes that didn’t exist. He understood.

It felt… nice.

_Okay_ , he thought, and they stood up together.

* * *

“Don’t be cross with him,” the thing that was not Martin said. “He would have told you if he could. But don’t worry, we do love him.”

Jon didn’t have any room to be cross. He was too busy trying not to throw up. “Oh god. Oh god, Martin I—” he paused to gag, “I’m so sorry.”

Martin tilted his head inquisitively. “For what?”

“For– I mean, if I hadn’t–” He cut himself off. Not now, he couldn’t do this now. He took a breath and grasped desperately for some composure. “You said– you said the ‘Flesh Hive’ wants to destroy me? Destroy the archives? That’s Prentiss, right? You know what she’s planning?”

Martin looked slightly unsure. “We… do. Mostly. We remember being Jane Prentiss, but we are Martin Blackwood now so it, ah, it’s a bit… fuzzy?”

“I’ll take anything.”

“There are tunnels beneath the Institute. It guards them, not letting us in very far. We know the path in from outside, and we know there’s a way in from the tunnels into the archive itself.”

“But _why?_ ” Jon pressed. “How?”

“It will use its children to consume you… and the rest of Institute too, probably.”

Lovely. “You snuck your, ah, your children in too. That worm Tim stepped on.”

Martin looked embarrassed. “We were worried about you. We wanted to watch, to make sure you were okay. You really need to get more sleep.”

“I get enough sleep,” Jon said dismissively. A thought occurred to him. “Wait, can Prentiss do that too? Watch?”

“Oh, yes,” Martin said, nodding. “But don’t worry, we can protect you.” He smiled, pressing a large portion of his hand through one of the chain-link holes. “Join us, Jon. We’ll keep you safe.”

One of the russet worms leapt from the back of his hand with incredible speed and hit Jon in the cheek.

He screamed, staggering back. He felt it trying to burrow into his skin and dropped his torch to grab its smooth, segmented body with one hand, trying to slow it down while he fished around in his jacket for his pocketknife. He found it, flipped it open, and cut the thing in half, then whimpered as he cut the rest of it from his flesh in a burst of white hot pain against his face.

“Don’t be afraid. We promise it doesn’t hurt for long,” Martin said. He put one foot on the fence and started to climb.

Jon turned and ran. He abandoned his torch in the grass, clasping a hand over the bleeding wound in his cheek and gripping his blade hard in the other. He didn’t know if Martin would chase him. He certainly _felt_ like he would, and ran like that was the case.

It was dark, almost too dark to see where he was going. Once or twice he nearly tripped over a bush or fell down an incline, and all throughout he was very, very aware of the grass and what it could possibly be hiding.

He saw the beam of a torch shining from behind a hedge up ahead and almost cried in relief. He stopped short just around the bend, nearly slamming straight into Tim. There was a moment of tension where Tim remained still, shining the light in his eyes, having skidded to a halt on the packed earth path.

Then he lowered it and exclaimed, “Oh what the hell, Jon?!”

“Go, go, just keep going,” Jon snapped. He wanted to grasp at Tim for emphasis, but had no free hands. So instead he started running again.

“What happened to your face? And is that _blood_ on your knife?” Tim asked, keeping pace with him.

“Not now Tim.”

“Are you being chased?”

“Maybe? Fuck, yes, yes I am!”

He heard a doubtful noise from Tim, and imagined he must be shining his light around as they ran, searching for their pursuer. Jon didn’t actually know if Martin was still chasing him, or if he had even cleared the fence at all, but there was no way he was going to stop and find out.

They made it back to Tim’s van safely. Jon could only breathe again once he was in the passenger seat with the door closed and locked. His hand was smeared red and he could feel droplets of blood running down his arm, no doubt ruining the cuff of his sleeve. The dull pain in his cheek rose and fell rhythmically.

“Alright, we’re safe now. Care to tell me what happened?” Tim asked, one hand on the wheel.

Jon wasn’t totally convinced they were safe just yet, but they were safe enough for a short chat at least. “I met Martin… He… It…” He sighed hard. “Prentiss… got him.”

“You mean like, _infected?_ That can’t be right. That makes people explode, like that woman in that one statement—”

“I _saw_ him, and believe me ‘infected’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. You saw those brown worms, in the archives, in the park. Prentiss’s worms are silver.”

Tim’s hand was white-knuckled on the wheel. “It can’t be Martin. He’s such a nice guy.”

“He flung a worm at me and I had to cut it from my face,” Jon said flatly. Then he found a bit of softness with which to add, “I’m sorry, Tim. He… well, he also had some valuable information for me.”

“I’m _all_ ears.”

“He said he was worried about me. He says the ‘Flesh Hive’—Jane Prentiss—plans to attack the archives. There are apparently tunnels beneath the Institute she’s been living in, or– or she’s been doing _something_ in. He says she wants to kill us with ‘her children’… though he did seem unsure about it.”

“And he just gave you this information, lucidly, while infested with disgusting worms?” Tim asked pointedly.

“What happened to him was not like what happened to Prentiss’s other victims. He told me about it…” Jon had to pause to swallow back some bile. “It seemed to– to like him too much. It’s like he twisted it somehow, and now he’s like her instead of like her victims.”

“Great. That’s just great.” Tim growled, echoed by the growl of the engine as he twisted the key and started the van. “You’re a real ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re talking about this like Martin isn’t essentially dead. He’s an awful worm thing and you’re all analytical about it. I know you don’t like the man, but _god_ , Jon, grow a heart.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. There was a rebuttal on his tongue, but it never left the tip. Tim backed them up and took them out of the parking lot.

“Where to now?” Jon asked quietly.

“My flat, to get your damn face fixed up.”

Jon was alright with that. He couldn’t blame Tim for his anger—he had no right to, considering it may be halfway Jon’s fault that Martin met such a fate. If he hadn’t felt the need to prove something to him, maybe he wouldn’t have gone into that basement again…

And it wasn’t like he felt– like he felt _nothing_. He felt bad for Martin! He felt terrified at how close it had all been to him! It was just that there were a lot of other concerns currently smothering it, and if he paid it too much mind…

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jon took it out wearily, keeping one hand pressed to his cheek.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 9:06 PM: “ _This is for you. For the archives_.”

There was an image attached. It was a photo, horribly distorted and covered in static. The only thing Jon could make out was that it showed a staircase heading down, and that there was a mass of something white at the bottom. He didn’t need to see the full thing to know what it was, and had no desire to try fixing up the image.

“Is it him again?” Tim asked, eyes forward on the darkened road.

“Yes, it… was a photograph he mentioned taking. It’s supposed to be of Prentiss, but as usual the image got scrambled.”

Tim grunted and kept driving.

* * *

“Ow.”

“Suck it up, boss,” Tim said, dabbing a copious amount of disinfectant onto the gash on Jon’s cheek. He set the bottle down. “That might need a couple stitches. Did you really need to cut it open like that?”

Jon sat at the table, quietly irritated that Tim had to take care of him like this. “Excuse me for worrying about being infested with worms. It wasn’t really a scenario I could think hard on.”

Tim waved a hand. Jon suffered through him closing the wound with a several painful pricks and slapping a bandage on it perhaps a little haphazardly. He gave Jon a few pats on the cheek, which also hurt.

“I see you’re still mad at me.”

“What gave you that impression?” Tim said. He gathered up the medical kit and took it back to the cupboard, putting it away. Then he paused with one hand on the door, and to Jon’s surprise he sighed. “Was there any of him left?”

Jon knew what he meant. “There was a lot of him left. That was… the worst part. He said he was worried about me, told me to get more sleep, all very Martin. I think… I think the only reason he tried to infect me was because he thought it would help somehow against Prentiss.”

And damn it, he still wanted to _know_. He wished Martin had waited longer before attacking him, if only because he still had so many questions. One burned brightly at the forefront of his mind and he found his hand gravitating toward the phone in his pocket.

He gave in and took it out. A chair scraped across the linoleum as Tim sat down across from him. “You’re going to text him, aren’t you?”

“He never told me where the exit was. He knows where the worms are getting in—he’s using it himself,” Jon said, not looking up from where he was navigating his contacts. “And this way the worst he can do is not answer.” Although that might be just as painful.

Tim rested his chin on his hand and watched Jon send: “ _Where are the worms entering the archives?_ ”

A pause.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 9:27 PM: “ _We… we… can’t tell… you_.”

Jon frowned, even though Martin couldn’t see him. “ _I need to know. Tell me._ ”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 9:27 PM: “ _It won’t… It won’t. We… I … I can’t._ ”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Monday 9:28 PM: “ _Within the first three rooms_.”

That was… strange. At least Jon had a place to start now, though he didn’t enjoy the thought of having to tear down furniture or architecture trying to find this hidden entrance. Elias might react negatively to finding him smashing up the basement with a hammer.

Tim’s accusation floated through his mind, so as not to be an ass he responded “ _Thank you._ ” before putting his phone away.

He’d… text Martin more later, when Tim wasn’t staring at him. With that question at least a little answered, he’d be able to get some sleep.

“He says the entrance to the tunnels is within the first three rooms,” Jon relayed.

“Have you considered he might be lying?” Tim asked, though by his tone he was only asking out of obligation.

“He seemed to struggle to tell me that much. I have a feeling the worms don’t want me to know.”

“But Martin does?”

“But Martin does. However that works.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Jon thought there should be the sound of a ticking clock to match the mood in the room, but Tim wasn’t one for things like that so they had only the hum of his refrigerator.

“What are we going to tell the others?” Tim asked quietly. He still seemed peeved, but it was buried under a new sense of melancholy.

“About the tunnels, or about Martin?”

“About Martin.”

Jon looked away, at the tacky fake deer’s head hanging on the wall. “I don’t know…”

* * *

The main room was a mess. Shelves had been rearranged, boxes had been stacked and unstacked and pushed haphazardly out of the way, and as of yet they still hadn’t found any hole or breach of any sort. There was nothing but cobwebs and dust back there, and it was quite frankly frustrating as hell. They hadn’t progressed to smashing holes in the walls yet, and with tensions as high as they were after the news of Martin’s… disappearance, it may well have to be a last-ditch course of action.

The statement wasn’t helping.

Jon turned off the tape recorder and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. The words on the page seemed to burn up at him, posing more questions than answers.

_Statement of Jane Prentiss regarding a wasps’ nest in her attic…_

He could really, really just go for a nap right now. He had a little bed in the back room for when he was staying late, but he felt simultaneously exhausted and too restless to sleep.

He hadn’t seen any brown worms for a few days. He stomped on them a little less viciously than he did the silver ones, but they still had to go. Sometimes he didn’t have to kill them himself at all—whenever they and one of the silver ones met, the silver always attacked and killed the russet.

That, too, just posed more questions.

Prentiss had said this ‘Hive’ hated the Institute. So why, then, was Martin fighting it to help him? Why was she attacking him if they were… of the same hive?

He could just ask. He could just take out his phone and ask.

So he did. He thought about his question hard and eventually settled on a simple: “ _Do you hate the Institute?_ ”

A few minutes passed.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Wednesday 10:14 AM: “ _We do_.”

“ _Then why are you helping me?_ ”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Wednesday 10:15 AM: _“Because he liked you a lot, Jon, so we like you. So we’ll save you when it all ends_.”

Jon was pretty certain what he meant by ‘save’ and had a terrible feeling it would involve more worms. He couldn’t guess what he’d done to make Martin like him enough for it to carry over into his current state, and he wanted to know so he could avoid it in any future circumstances of a similar nature.

He spotted something out of the corner of his eye: a worm, small and brown, writhing lethargically at the base of a stack of cardboard boxes. Jon put a hand on the top of the fire extinguisher beside his chair.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Wednesday 10:15 AM: “ _Please take a nap_.”

“Alright, fine,” Jon said aloud. He twisted the nozzle of the extinguisher toward the worm and euthanized it in one quick burst.

* * *

Jon felt uncomfortably abandoned. It was rash, what he did—trying to smash that spider, going for the tape recorder—and now with Sasha and Tim having run off somewhere and him locked in here and injured there was nothing he could do but despair until Prentiss got tired of waiting and found a way in to destroy him.

Perhaps Sasha and Tim were already dead. It seemed like that might be the case, with the way Sasha went running out there. Perhaps the worms had infested the rest of the Institute, gotten the upper floors, gotten Elias. Perhaps he was the last one left.

He wished he hadn’t lost that tape recorder. He’d love to tell it his woes right now, to make sure that when they found his corpse they would know what happened here this day. But it seemed instead he’d become a mystery, like he’d always feared. And so soon, too.

The thought made him bark out a short, despairing laugh.

He could see only part of the door from where he was sitting, but from what Sasha said there wasn’t anything to see out there but lots and lots of worms, and that wasn’t something he wanted to watch.

He happened to be staring at it, though, when he heard the knocking. It was a short, almost insistent series of bangs on the reinforced door. It sounded like whoever was out there either really wanted in or otherwise wanted his attention. His first thought was that it was Prentiss, trying to trick him into letting her in. His second thought was that it was Tim or Sasha, seconds away from their deaths.

With a gasp of pain he forced himself to his feet, the injury in his leg protesting angrily. He limped over to where he could see the window, and found it was neither of those options.

Martin waved at him frantically. He looked… well, terrible for a start, as absolutely nightmarish as the last time Jon had met the thing. But there was something about him now that was different. His movements made it seem like he hadn’t slept in days, and even the worms infesting his flesh looked tired and sluggish.

“How did you get in?” Jon mused, mostly to himself since the door was soundproof.

To his surprise, Martin made a motion with both hands, forming them into an arch and then pointing toward where the breach was located. _Tunnel._

Jon’s brow immediately furrowed and he looked around himself. He didn’t see any little brown worms in the immediate vicinity, and didn’t look very hard or long because Martin banged on the door to regain his attention.

He pointed deeper into the archive then mimed the motion of ripping paper. He wiggled his fingers then covered his eyes.

“Tearing something apart, can’t see?” Jon guessed. “Prentiss is distracted?”

Martin nodded. He pointed at Jon through the window—or maybe past him?—then pretended to hit something.

Jon really wished signals could get out of this room. “Yes I know she wants to kill me.”

Martin shook his head and repeated the gesture more forcefully. When Jon just stared at him, he made a very _Martin_ gesture of frustration and made a twirling motion with his finger—the signal for _turn around_.

Jon tentatively did—he was going to die anyway so what did it matter if it was from a white worm or a brown one? And he did see the worm, but it didn’t leap at him. Instead it flung itself at a bare section of wall, bouncing off it pathetically and falling to the floor. He looked back to the door to find Martin yet again making that same hitting motion.

“Are you telling me to break the wall?” Jon asked incredulously.

Martin nodded furiously and made the gesture for _tunnel_ again—

And twisted to look to his right. His expression grew fearful, and he turned and ran in the opposite direction. A second later the window was blotted out by a carpet of silver worms.

Jon looked at the russet worm lying at the base of the wall. It was alive, obviously, but looked a little stunned.

“Break the wall, break the wall... Break it with what? My hand?” Jon said to himself… or perhaps he said it to Martin. Hilariously enough, the creature seemed to be the only one here for him at the moment. “Alright, let me find something to swing.”

In the end he had to use the metal drawer of a small filing cabinet, after emptying it of its contents. His leg was throbbing in pain, but he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. “Thank you for the information, Martin, and I’m sorry if this stings,” he said, then brought the drawer down onto the worm, killing it.

After the first hit it was clear that this section of wall was like the last one. It sounded thin and weak. Where the drawer had impacted there was a small indent of broken drywall. He hit it again and again in the same spot.

There was a dark hole into an echoing space beyond when he was forced to take a break. He set the drawer down and sat, gripping his leg as if doing so would soothe the agony. There was a lot of blood seeping through the bandages Sasha had hastily applied after she’d cut the worms out of him.

He heard a voice wafting in through the freshly-made hole: “Hello-o spooky light source! Anyone still alive in there?”

Jon let out a huff that was nearly a laugh. “Tim? Tim! Yes, I’m here!”

Tim’s smiling, oddly dazed-looking face appeared out of the darkness. “Hey boss, great to see you’re still alive. _Lots_ of worms, huh?”

“You don’t need to tell me about it. Can you break this wall? I’m afraid I, ah, can’t do much more right now.”

“Oh, sure, one second. You might want to step back—or crawl back in your case.”

Jon rolled his eyes but did so. He was still showered with dust and broken bits of wall as Tim smashed through the weakened section with what looked like a bright red canister of CO2. Jon stood up and arduously clambered through the hole to join him in the tunnel.

It was very dark. Tim held his phone in one hand, shining the little light around at the rocky walls, and had the extinguisher slung over his shoulder with the other.

Jon took his phone out too and did the same, just so he could have some control over the situation. “I’ll wait until later to ask you how you got out of that mess,” he said.

“That’s appreciated. So, where to now?”

“Well I– well I don’t know. You’ve been down here more than me. Perhaps we could find another way into the archives and ambush Prentiss with that.” He gestured to Tim’s canister.

“Being heroes— I like it. But, uh, unfortunately I can’t quite remember the way back. I think I inhaled a _lot_ of gas killing those worms, and these tunnels… It sounds silly but they keep shifting on me.”

“Anything is better than here. Let’s just go, we’ll find a way in eventually.” Or another wall to break down.

“Oh, one thing I should mention,” Tim began as they started off, walking slowly due to Jon’s injury. “The worms down here are very jumpy. They’re fast, and totally silent. A few almost got me on the way here, but you know— _I’m faster_.” He wiggled his canister triumphantly.

“What colour were they?”

“As far as I can remember, all white.”

Jon nodded to himself. All white…

They walked for a while, and he soon understood what Tim meant when he said the tunnels kept shifting on him. They looked visually odd for a start, dark and ominous and full of incongruous sections where they shifted from rough-hewn to brickwork to wobbly crevice, and Jon could swear they kept passing sections they’d seen before, even though there was no way they could have doubled back far enough for that to happen.

“I don’t mean to be alarming, but I think we’re being followed,” Tim whispered after they’d been walking for about ten minutes.

Jon swung the fragile light of his phone around, but saw nothing. He did, however, hear the faintest sound of something scraping across rock. There was a bend in the tunnel behind them. Guessing, he called, voice echoing through the darkness: “Martin?”

A figure peeked around the corner, and Jon was correct. Illuminated faintly at the edge of the light, Martin curled infested fingers around the stone bend and smiled sheepishly. He looked a lot more alert. “Hi Jon. Hello Tim.”

“Oh _fucking_ hell,” Tim breathed. He scrambled to put away his phone, shifting the fire extinguisher off his shoulder and pointing the nozzle at Martin.

“I… I think it’s alright, Tim,” Jon said, hardly believing he was saying the words. He reached out and tried to redirect where Tim was pointing the extinguisher, but Tim’s arms held it in place like iron struts.

“No it sure as hell is not! Look– _look_ at him. At _it_.”

“I am. I _do_ have eyes,” Jon said. “As it happens, I’d have never made it out of that room without him, so maybe a little less hostility is in order.” Although, he would admit it was unsettling for there to be no door or fence between them this time, but as long as Martin didn’t come any closer he could deal with it.

“We’re sorry for following you. But, well, it’s _weird_ down here. We didn’t want anything to happen,” Martin said. “We’ve been trying to explore it for a while, so we thought we’d follow along, just in case we needed to warn you about anything.”

“How did you get past Prentiss?” Jon asked. Last he remembered Martin had been fleeing deeper into the archives, and the main room itself might as well be painted white.

“Oh, well obviously we ran for a bit, but the Flesh Hive wasn’t interested in us, really. It just wanted to chase us away, and we realised that we could just… run past it? Many of it leapt at us. It… hurt a bit. The Hive took a swing too, but we made it down here.”

“Stop talking like that,” Tim said through gritted teeth.

Martin looked to him, genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“You keep saying ‘we’. We were doing this, we were doing that. We we we. Stop _doing_ that with his _mouth_.”

“Oh. Um.” Martin looked like he was puzzling out a particularly hard math problem. “W– I– I’m sorry. I might be able to lead you back, if– if you want?”

“How about you just tell us the way instead,” Jon suggested.

“Well w– I sort of can’t? I could tell you how I got here, but it might not be accurate anymore. I backtrack by, well,” he gave a little chuckle and wiggled his fingers, “leaving a trail.”

Tim made a noise in his throat. He was breathing hard. “Look what you did to him, whatever the hell you are. He was a nice guy. I should save him by putting you out of your misery.”

Martin recoiled, putting a few inches of stone wall between them. “We aren’t in any pain, Tim. It isn’t miserable. We are Martin Blackwood—he chose to embrace us, and we love him very much.”

That, apparently, did it for Tim. A cloud of gas shot toward the bend. Tim was too far away to properly hit Martin, but by the cry of pain and terror he certainly clipped him. They heard the sound of running footsteps echoing away into the distance.

Jon eyed the scattering of dead worms left near the bend. “Well…” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I suppose we should… keep moving.”

“How do you do it?” Tim asked, still pointing the nozzle at where Martin had disappeared. “How do you just talk to it like that?”

“By utilising a certain level of detachment. Let’s just keep moving.” In fact he was preventing himself from thinking about it with any kind of emotion at all, for fear he would start crying. Or laughing. Or perhaps both.

“Is that your way of saying you just hate him? Easy to crunch your emotions down into a ball if you don’t have any in the first place.”

“I don’t…” Jon huffed. “I don’t _hate_ him. I simply found him timid and annoying… You can stop pointing that thing, he’s gone.”

Tim lowered the nozzle. There wasn’t much light, but what little there was glinted on the tears welling in his eyes. “Yeah, well, for what it’s worth I think he kinda liked you.”

“Yes, I’m starting to think that…”

Tim said nothing. He kept his canister at the ready, relying on Jon to light their path as they continued onward in stony silence.

The tunnels twisted and turned. It felt like they were being taken far from the Institute, but at the same time Jon felt like he could smash through any of these walls and be in his office. They encountered worms, of course, and Jon pointed them out when he caught that tell-tale glint of silver. They were twitchy and fast and Tim sprayed them perhaps a little more intensely than he needed to. Jon thought to call him out for wasting CO2, but never did.

The more worms they found, the surer Jon was that they were heading in the right direction, so he wasn’t surprised when they reached the stairs. They were thin and made of stone. Shining his light up them revealed a solid-looking trapdoor.

Tim looked up at it. “So what are the chances of Prentiss being right on the other side of that, ready to kill us?”

“Very high, but I have a feeling that will be the case regardless of where we enter.”

“Want to do the honours, boss?”

Jon’s leg was going numb at this point, but he ascended the stairs painfully and pushed on the trapdoor. It didn’t open, but it didn’t seem locked either. It was like there was something heavy atop it.

“Locked?” Tim asked.

“No… no I don’t think so.” He braced himself and put more weight on it. “It’s like – _urgh_ – like something’s—”

The trapdoor gave suddenly with a thunderous crashing from above. It sounded like wood and boxes falling over, and Jon wondered where it could be that he neglected to check. He hoped he hadn’t just destroyed several shelves.

Poking his head up, he was greeted with bright artificial light, a wailing fire alarm, and the omnipresent sounds of popping, writhing worms. As far as he could see there weren’t many too close, at least not on the wreck of shelving and scattered paper all around him.

“Do you see her anywhere?” Tim asked, having ascended the staircase to peer over Jon’s shoulder.

“Not yet…” Jon said. Together they entered the room proper. “She must be elsewhere. Where are we? This isn’t– this isn’t the main archive is it?”

It was. Jon was baffled at how he could possibly have missed an entire trapdoor, with how thoroughly he had tossed the place.

Without warning the popping sounds surged. They both twisted around—

“ _Shit_ _—_ _!_ ”

* * *

Martin leaned his back against the tunnel wall, arms crossed protectively over his chest, and gazed blankly through the darkness.

Tim’s attack hurt more than he expected. Not physically—though having so many of him die and fall away was certainly painful—but he just wasn’t expecting it from Tim. Jon he would understand, he was used to hostility from Jon. Martin Blackwood had many memories of such things from him.

Tim, though, had been a friend. Martin tried to explain, but Tim didn’t seem to understand. He just hated him now, thought he was in pain or something, and didn’t seem to get that the only pain Martin was feeling had come from him.

He hugged himself a little tighter. At least the Hive still loved him, he thought, and felt a curl of affirmation around his finger.

Martin hadn’t followed them. He should have—what if they were in danger _right now?_ —but he didn’t think he’d be able to follow quietly enough that they wouldn’t turn on him and kill him. He still felt the sting of that gas. If Tim had taken one step forward…

He supposed he should go look for them, or something. The archives were under the Hive’s control, and that was what he wanted, but… Jon. But _Jon_. He was in danger. They… he... she... were going to… kill him. Kill all of them.

Martin Blackwood didn’t want that.

Oh if only Jon had joined him, he thought. Then he would be safe.

He pushed himself away from the wall with the intent to find them again, and really wasn’t expecting the scream.

It tore through him like liquid fire. A hundred thousand things in pain, a hundred thousand deaths at once, so loud and so agonising that all he could do was scream as well. He could feel it all, he could hear them screaming, just _screaming_.

The core… it was… it was... _gone_.

Martin fell to his knees, gripping the ragged fabric over his chest. He may have hit the ground soon after, but not before everything went truly black.

* * *

It had been a month since Jon had last set foot in the archives. He expected the place to be covered in blood and dead worms as last he remembered it, but it wasn’t. It was clean and dark and silent.

He was still tired, still felt flashes of pain from where—he shuddered—from where his healing scars were. But work beckoned and it was like… like he couldn’t bear to stay away for any longer. Something was calling him back.

No one stopped him. Sasha frowned, but was the same subdued self she had been ever since the attack. Elias nodded to him, reassured him that yes Prentiss was truly dead, and returned to his office. Tim was still recovering.

Jon sat down at his desk, turning on the lamp to illuminate the spotless surface in front of him. His laptop was closed and his papers neater than they’d ever been, his stapler lined up and his pens in their cup. The tape recorder was back in place.

He sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. What would it be today, he wondered, fake or real?

He would like something fake. Something so absurd that he couldn’t possibly imagine it stalking him, something absurd enough that it wouldn’t catch the attention of… of whatever he could feel watching him. Was it here among the shelves? Was it lurking just behind the trapdoor he knew was nearby?

He went to open his laptop, and heard his phone buzz in its pocket. He took it out and turned it on, expecting it to be from Tim or Sasha or Elias.

It wasn’t.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:25 AM: “ _You shouldn’t be working, Jon. Go home and sleep._ ”

Jon was out of his chair in an instant. He looked around wildly, but saw nothing but shelves and files.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:26 AM: “ _Please don’t worry. The archives are safe. The Hive has no more interest in the Institute. You are safe. Please rest_.”

“How do you know that?” Jon demanded of the gloom. He couldn’t find the damn worm, but he knew it must be nearby. It wasn’t over, it wasn’t _over_.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:26 AM: “ _Because we are the Hive now, and it’s what we choose. You are not in any danger from us. Please believe us. Please please believe me._ ”

Jon’s eyes darted around. He tried. He really tried. He remembered the way Prentiss had attacked Martin, the way those white worms had dug so viciously into the brown. He remembered the scream, loud and terrible. If it was just Martin now, and Martin wanted to help him…

But he just couldn’t stop thinking about the… burrowing.

“Get your worms _out_ of the archives.”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:27 AM: “ _But I want to see you. I want to talk. I know you didn’t like my tea, but I’d still make it for you if I could_.”

“Then stop spying and just text me like a normal person.”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:27 AM: “ _Would you respond to me if I did?_ ”

Jon hesitated. “I… yes, I would.”

Something dropped from the top of a shelf nearby and landed a few feet away. Jon startled and leapt back, but the worm did nothing but sit there, curled into a U shape. It didn’t twitch or writhe, it didn’t make a sound. It seemed to be staring at him like it was waiting for something. Waiting for him to kill it.

Jon… didn’t.

He had an idea. If Martin wanted to watch him so badly, then fine.

Keeping an eye on it, he backed away. He found a large glass jar in one of the back rooms, emptied it of the loose change that was inside, and poked a few tiny holes in the lid with a needle. Then he returned, finding the worm exactly where he left it.

He knelt down beside the thing and, through ten layers of emotional detachment, picked it up with his bare fingers and dropped it into the jar, then slammed the lid closed and set the thing on his desk.

“Alright Martin,” Jon said, sitting back down. “There you go. Happy?”

His phone buzzed.

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:36 AM: “ _You didn’t need to do that. I would have left…_ ”

“Would you rather I’d killed it?”

Text from Martin Blackwood, Tuesday 7:36 AM: “ _No. Thank you, Jon_.”

Jon opened his laptop and booted it up. “And by the way I, ah… I liked your tea.”

There was no response. Jon set his phone down and rifled through the pile of statements, picking out the first one stupid enough to make him snort. He tapped it on his desk to straighten it.

“Statement of Christopher Davy regarding a melting tire on his new truck…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you want, come see me at my Tumblr: [rinedin.tumblr.com](http://rinedin.tumblr.com/) (constantly updated link in my profile)


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